Many years ago, my son would want me to sit with him as he fell asleep every night. Often, it would take him half an hour or more to do so, so I’d be sitting quietly in the dark just doing nothing. I didn’t mind. I knew that the time would come when he wouldn’t need me there as he fell asleep, and then I’d look back with a sense of nostalgia for those quiet times.

Sure enough, the bed time routine is far more cursory now. I’m not needed in the same way any more. That’s to be expected: my son is growing up and becoming more independent.

One of the other great pleasures of his childhood was reading a book with him before bed. It started when he was tiny, and couldn’t read by himself. We’d read books with bright pictures and simple stories, and I’d try and do a different voice for each character. As he grew older, the books also changed.

After a few years, we started reading books so long we couldn’t finish them in one sitting at night, so instead we’d read a chapter together. I’d place a bookmark when we finished, so we’d be able to pick up the stories again the next evening. If I wasn’t around, my wife would be able to read the story too, so each night the bookmark crept ever closer to the end of the back cover.

I always knew that time would come to an end too. There’d be a day when reading a book at bedtime was something my son would do on his own. That’s to be expected: my son is growing up and becoming more independent.

I know this, yet still, it leaves me with a sense of wistful sorrow that there are books with my bookmark in them sitting on his shelf, waiting for an evening routine that won’t come again.

I hope that maybe one day, we’ll sit together and finish those books, not because he needs me to read them, but because he’d like to.